A Cold and Broken Hallelujah
by RinaCath
Summary: When a mix of England's memories and his pride lead him to a deadly incident with a liquor cabinet, will America be the one to save the day? Intended as fluff, but a bit dark. one-shot.


**OH GAWD, SHE'S AT IT AGAIN!**

**That's right. I'm back. Dun dun dun. I needed some practice writing fluff, as I've never written it before (and I'm supposed to be doing homework). So…uhm…this will probably suck really bad. Also I get nervous when I read/write this kind of stuff because I always feel like the actual characters know what I'm up to and they disapprove. Arrg, there's that feeling again. Everyone else gets that feeling too…right?**

**Soooo… enjoy?**

It wasn't that there was nothing to do. It was just that England didn't want to do any of it.

Right now, however, the stack of work waiting for him in his office was looking like a great alternative to this. It just couldn't be healthy.

_What exactly is 'this'?_ England asked himself, setting the picture frame back down on the table where it belonged.

'This' was getting lost in memories after drinking a bottle of scotch. 'This' was wondering why he kept America's pictures around when America clearly had none of him. 'This' was wishing he could just go back to when America was small, when he looked up to England like England was the best country in the world.

The ex-greatest-country-ever groaned and let his head loll against the back of the couch. _I can't let him go, even now. This is ridiculous, he's moved on, clearly._

But it was hard, knowing that in anyone's book you were the _ex-_greatest. It hurt, falling from such a height.

_America was such a sweet little boy. Troublesome, yes, but he always looked so happy when I came around._ Why couldn't he do that now? Why couldn't America just get over his rebellious stage already?

_But_, argued that part of England that only came out when he was drunk, _this isn't a phase. This isn't going to just disappear_. But what was he supposed to do about it?

_There's the phone_. nudged that part of him. He looked at it, sitting so quietly next to the picture frame. _Just pick it up, that's all. Call him, tell him how you feel._

His hand reached for the receiver, but at the last minute panicked and grabbed the frame again.

_That's stupid._ He argued with himself, looking at the picture again. _I'm drunk and I know it. If I call him now I'll just be making an idiot of myself._

The picture was an old one. It was stained from age, black and white and crumpled from being much less precious at one point. He and America stood outside America's house, still new and fresh looking. It was soon after England had claimed the colonies for his own, maybe a week or two. America was so much _smaller_, sitting in his older brother's arms.

But the both of them were smiling, not the forced, overly-pleased smile of someone posing for a picture, but the natural curve of someone truly happy.

_Truly happy_. When was the last time England had used those words to describe himself? A single tear fell on the glass. Hurriedly, England brushed it off to keep it from staining the picture.

But the tear made him realize something. Looking around his house, he saw what he'd known all along and had been ignoring. _You always knew it, didn't you? How long has it been like this?_

Everything in England's house had a fine layer of dust on it. The table, the pictures, even the couch he was sitting on. But not this frame. It was clean, and clean only because he took the time to care for it every day.

Around the room, small things jumped out at him. Another picture frame, a doorknob, a button from his old military uniform. All things that reminded him of America. All spotless, standing out from their surroundings covered in dust and dirt.

_Always._ England curled in on himself on the couch. _It's always been like this_.

_Shut up. Just shut up._ He told his drunken voice of wisdom. He reached for the bottle of scotch again, but it remembered before he picked it up that it was empty. He reached around to the liquor cabinet behind the couch.

But the cabinet was facing away from him, the back against the back of the couch. On the top, dusty, unidentifiable artifacts blocked his way.

He leaned over, marking the surface of the cabinet with fingerprints in the dust. _Just get up_. The voice told him sternly. _Just stand up and walk around the couch._

But England didn't want to get up. That would be giving up. Since when did Englishmen give up?

He gritted his teeth and leaned forward further, trying not to hit the useless, dust-covered knickknacks that, right now, were only obstacles.

_America could do it_. Tears hit the cabinet and cleaned pinpricks of dust. _Almost there. Almost…_

His fingers brushed the knob. Elated by, what then to him, seemed to be a great success, England pulled the door open smartly.

But the door did not budge. England, instead, drunk and poorly balanced on the cabinet, somersaulted across the back of the couch and hit the ground. The cabinet, old and heavy, came down on top of him.

England shouted out, pinned against the floor. The objects littering the cabinet flung across him, some shattering, some rolling away, others simply smacking him in the face. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

The cabinet was crushing his chest, he couldn't get air. He pushed against it uselessly but it remained where it was, knobs jabbing into his stomach painfully.

He coughed helplessly, unable to draw in air. But, at last, his emptied lungs fought gravity and won. He inhaled.

The cabinet was heavy, very heavy. And at the time, it had been properly stocked, and, now England remembered, locked. At least some of the contents had broken and were leaking against his shirt, burning where the doorknobs had broken his skin. His face was cut and bruised from whatever had shattered against it.

He brushed the glass away from his face, cutting both his face and his hand further in the process.

_Where did the glass come from?_ Asked his damn drunken mind.

But the answer came with a jolt of shock and pain. The picture. The picture had still been in his hand when he'd fallen. He scrabbled at it, picking the ruined frame up off his chest to look.

The broken glass had torn the picture. A scrape had cleared America completely from the picture. Now it was just him, alone.

_Like always_. He gave a single, broken sob. Like always, of course. Like right now, slowly being crushed to death by a liquor cabinet. What an appropriate death. No one would come visiting until he'd starved to death, if they came at all. If anyone cared enough to come looking for him.

He gave up. He let his arms fall back against the floor, and waited for death.

His hand hit something. Curiosity finally got the better of him. He turned his head.

His cell phone, blasted thing. He'd only used it once, when Japan had given it to him. The thing annoyed the hell out of him, who needed to have a phone all the time?

_Probably people who leave the house_. Said that cursed drunken fragment of England. England shoved it away. _I don't want to hear you right now_.

But it kept talking. _You wanted to call America. Now you have a reason._

England laughed. It was the coughing, jagged laugh of a desperate man. Yes. Yes, now he had a very good reason to call America.

He picked up the phone and looked it over. The sleek and shiny surface was coated with dust, like everything else, and it had a scratch in it from the fall.

_I don't want America to see me like this._ He thought with a sigh, letting the phone fall against his chest. _I never did. When I went to war I always hid it from him, I didn't like him seeing me hurt_. Pride can be a deadly thing.

_If you don't call him, he's never going to see you again._ Well there was a thought. Was it worth it, then, to let America see him like this? He could just imagine what he'd say.

_Covered in liquor again, England? *laugh* You're so hopeless. Always need someone to pick you back up when you fall_.

Something like that. Who cared if he died anymore? _I don't_.

_Yes you do! You care, and you know somewhere, America does too. You never wanted him to see you like this because you didn't want him worrying. Maybe he's got a reason to worry! Maybe realizing what he's done to you will be good for him!_

_What he's _done_ to me?_ England spat at himself. _What he's done? He hasn't done anything, this is all me. I'm the one who could never let go._

_What about when he was hurt? He tried to hide it from you, too. Remember that? But you were always there for him, always. You always picked him up when he fell._

_So?_

_Maybe it's time he picked you up._

_ I don't need picking up_.

_You're pinned under a liquor cabinet and arguing with yourself. You need him._

"I DON'T NEED ANYBODY!" England roared to nobody. "I don't need anyone." He whispered. His voice cracked on the last word.

_Call your little brother_.

England picked the phone back up. _Call him call him call him call him…._ It kept running through his head. He opened the phone.

It was dead.

_Typical_. England laughed, coughing up blood in the process. It smeared across the blank screen.

He turned the phone over, wondering how it could be dead if he never used the damn thing.

The battery was gone. There was a gaping hole in the back of the phone, a diagram explained in impossibly small writing how to insert the battery properly.

England looked up, across the floor. The fall had knocked the battery out of the phone and across the floor. Just out of reach.

England tried anyway, stretched himself out as far as he could. His fingers were just short of the damned battery.

The doorknobs dug into his stomach, keeping him from moving anymore. He let his arm fall limp against the floor, completely without hope. _It didn't matter, in the end. _England laughed again. _It didn't even matter if I wanted to call him or not. I can't._

_For someone who was so determined not to be a quitter you're giving up easy._

"Maybe I used up all my willpower knocking over a damn liquor cabinet." England said to himself aloud. "Maybe I just don't care anymore."

But, the truth was, he did care. He didn't want to lose now. He'd never see America again, never see him smile like he had in the lost picture. Never see that pure happiness on his little brother's face again.

England reached for the battery again.

The doorknobs dug into his stomach, he felt the leaking liquor sear the damaged skin. Tears welled in his eyes. The crushing weight of the cabinet would snap his ribs soon. It had to be nearly two hundred pounds. Damn him and his love of fine woodwork.

His fingers brushed the battery. The small connection sent something akin to static electricity up his arm. He gritted his teeth and reached a little further. The doorknobs tore into his skin. He could feel his own blood staining the wood.

_There._ The little lump of metal and plastic was in his hand. He let out a sharp cry of happiness and rested against the floor again, worn out.

The battery fit smoothly into the phone. He didn't have the back cover but the phone would work fine without it. He just had to hold the battery in place.

The light hurt his eyes. The sun had gone down since he'd fallen and before that he'd had no lights on. It was pitch black in the room apart from this little life-saver made from circuits and plastic.

A tone played, the screen flashed the logo. England waited anxiously. Finally, the screen cleared and showed the battery and signal bars. There was one of each.

Swallowing anxiously, England keyed in America's number, keeping in mind the different area codes necessary for a long-distance call. The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

"This is America-"

"America! It's-"

"I can't come to phone right now…"

England nearly dropped the phone. Why, of course, when he needed America most, he wasn't around. Wasn't that just to be expected of America?

The tone played.

"A-america? It's…It's England. I…..I need your help. C…can you come to my place…as soon as you can? I-"

The phone died.

England yelled out wordlessly in anger and threw the phone across the room.

He broke into tears. Why couldn't America ever be there when he needed him? Why couldn't America just care? Why? Now he'd used his only hope of survival on America, and America hadn't even gotten it. Who knew when he'd check his voicemail, especially when he saw who it was from.

"Are you happy now?" he shouted at himself, at the drunken mind that had pushed him to this. "Are you satisfied now?"

The voice was quiet.

"Why couldn't I have just died with a little dignity?" He yelled. "Now he's going to _know_ that I tried to ask for help. He's going to _know_ that he was the first – and only! – person I went to for help."

_But that's what you wanted_.

"You're a dirty liar!" England sobbed. "Why would I want him to know that in my one moment of desperation I went to _him_?"

_Because you're the first person he'd go to._

"That's just not true!" England was well aware he was arguing with himself. "America never needs help, he never did. He'd never get in a situation like this."

He waited for the voice to respond, but, apparently, it too thought America was too good to ever get trapped drunk under a liquor cabinet.

A mixture of hopelessness, the drinks he'd had, and pure exhaustion sent him into a sleep-less stupor.

_"America! America! Where'd you get off to?" England tried to find the colony amongst the huge hallways of his house. But America knew this house much better than England did. If he really wanted to, he'd avoid England for a long while._

_ A sob came from a room just as England was passing it. He paused outside the door._

_ "Go away." Came the stuffy-nosed response to the stop in his footsteps._

_ England opened the door. America was crouched behind the bed, not completely hidden, sitting on the floor._

_ "America? Are you alright?" England called out softly. America gave a repressed sob._

_ "Go away!" he said again, words nearly intelligible because he was trying not to cry in front of his big brother._

_ "I'm not going to do that, America." England sat down on the bed, opposite where America was hiding._

_ "I don't want you to see."_

_ "See what?" England feigned ignorance._

_ America didn't answer, just coughed in a failed attempt to hide his crying._

_ "I…I got hurt."_

_ "Can I see?" England asked gently._

_ "I don't want you to!" America sobbed again._

_ "Why not?"_

_ "B-because I don't want you to see me hurt. I don't want you to think I'm weak."_

_ England turned around so he could better see the shivering colony. "I'd never think you're weak, America. You're the strongest country I've ever seen."_

_ "I'm not as strong as you." America sniffled, but he seemed happy to hear his older brother's praise._

_ England warmed at America's high opinion of him. "Can I see? Please? I promise I won't think any less of you."_

_ Finally, America stood up and turned around. He held out his right hand to England, left grasping it at the wrist as if afraid it would fall off._

_ "I…I cut the vegetables just like you showed me!" he insisted. "I don't know what happened! I-the knife slipped!"_

_ "I'm sure it did." England told him distractedly. He took the little colony's hand in both his to better see it._

_ "Will…will it still work?" America asked, sounding frightened._

_ England looked up at America's tear-stained face. It was red from trying not to cry, his blue eyes seemed larger than normal, and wet with tears. He was shaking slightly._

_ "Of course it will." England soothed. He took the shivering country into his arms on the bed, no longer caring if the sheets were stained with blood. "It just needs a bandage, okay?"_

_ America huddled closer to his brother. He nodded, face hidden among the folds in England's shirt. England stroked his hair gently._

_ "Come on." He carefully stood, working hard to keep his balance. America was growing fast, soon he wouldn't be able to do this._

_ America wrapped his good arm around England's neck and buried his head under his chin. England hummed softly as he made his way back to the kitchen._

_ The knife was still where they'd left it, now covered in America's blood. England had been showing America how to cook. He'd looked away for an instant and the boy had managed to cut himself. Typical America._

_ "Just sit here, okay?" England set his little brother on the counter. "And don't move this time." He warned him._

_ America nodded, stilling holding his wrist so hard his hand was starting to look a little blue. England sighed and turned around to rummage through the drawers for the first-aid kit._

_ "England?"_

_ "Yes?" England found the small white box and walked back to where America was sitting, frozen solid to keep from breaking England's rule that he not move._

_ "Will I be as big and strong as you some day?"_

_ England paused to take out a role of gauze from the kit._

_ "Yes."_

_ "Promise?" _

_ "I'm sure of it." England smiled at the shivering colony. He took his hurt hand again and pried America's fingers away from his other wrist._

_ "When I'm big and strong like you, I promise I'll help you if you ever get hurt."_

_ England taped the gauze to America's hand and ruffled the boy's hair._

_ "I'll make sure you keep your word on that."_

"England?"

England was torn away from his memories by the sound of someone stomping around the first floor of his house.

"England!" came the voice again, this time closer. Who could possibly be wandering around his house now? England's drunken, exhausted mind fought to explain this new situation to him.

Finally, it clicked.

"America!" he screamed, using up any last scrap of energy or strength he'd had left.

There was a banging as America ran up the stairs. "England!"

But England's lungs had given up on him. His ribs protested, he could feel them straining, but they would break any moment now. They'd pierce his lungs, let him die slowly.

It was still pitch black in the room. America had a difficult time finding the doorway. He gave up on finding the light switch and stumbled around the room, blind.

"England? Where are you?"

But England still couldn't breathe. He smiled at America's voice. _At least that's the last thing I'll remember._

America nearly tripped over him. In a second, he'd righted the cabinet as if it was a cardboard box. England coughed violently and gasped for air.

"How long have you been here?" America demanded, picking England up off the floor as if he were a ragdoll and setting him on the couch.

"Dunno." England coughed. He could still taste blood in his mouth.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get your message, I had my phone off, I-" America trailed off. "Are you okay?"

"Dunno." England laughed weakly. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Why wouldn't I come?" America demanded.

"Because you hate me." England said, as if it were obvious. It was. "Because every time you see me all you can do is make fun of me. Because you declared your independence from me."

America didn't respond for a few minutes. "I can't believe you think I hate you."

"Don't you?"

"I-No! England, no, I don't hate you."

"Hmm…" England trailed off, thinking.

"Do you remember…. I wonder?"

"Remember what?" America asked. It was still too dark to see. Neither of them mentioned it.

"Remember when I turned my back for a second and you cut yourself?"

America said nothing.

"When you ran off because you were afraid I'd think you were weak if I saw you cry…?" England kept talking for his own sake. He knew America wouldn't remember.

"You were so scared." He laughed. "You thought your hand wouldn't work anymore! You were holding it so tight I was afraid it wouldn't. "

"I thought if I let go all my blood would get out."

England smiled. "You do remember."

"How could I forget? I thought you would be disgusted with me. I thought you'd see me crying and give up on me. Leave me all alone in that big house."

"I'd never think that." England told him. "How could I give up you?"

"I also thought my blood would escape." America reminded him, with the hint of a smile to his voice.

England laughed. "You seemed to like that big house. You knew it much better than I ever did."

America laughed too. "That's because I spent so much time trying to hide when I was in trouble."

"You'd hide for so long I'd forget why I was mad." England was still laughing.

"That was the point."

England sighed. "I miss that." He admitted finally.

America didn't respond.

"I miss how close we were. I miss how you used to look at me, like I was the best country in the world."

America still said nothing.

England kept going, knowing he was making a fool of himself. But he'd gotten this far, and his drunken mind was having a hard time keeping track of what he should and should not be telling his little brother.

"I miss when we used to sit outside and look at all the trees and you'd tell me everything you planned to do with them. I miss when we used to play tag and hide-and-go-seek and tickle fights…."

"And I'd climb a tree and you'd have to coax me down, and when you'd read me a scary story and then let me sleep in your bed, and when we'd just sit together and do nothing…" America brushed a lock of hair away from England's face. England's eyes had nearly adjusted, now that the stress of the cabinet was gone. He could almost see America completely, his blue eyes looking back into his. In such slight light, England could see America's face without his glasses, see him as a little boy again.

"I miss it too." America finally told him.

England reached up to where America's hand fussed with England's bangs and locked his fingers through the other's. America clenched his fist so he was holding England's fingers.

"You've got blood on your hand."

"I've got blood a lot of places." England assured his ex-colony.

"You should get that looked at."

"You can look at it."

When had America's face gotten to be just a few inches away? His blue eyes glinted in the gentle starlight from the shuttered windows.

"That's true." America murmured. England could taste his breath from here. Hamburgers, what else could be expected from an American?

"But it can wait." England whispered.

"Of course it can." America agreed. He leaned forward a little more.

England closed the rest of the distance between them. His lips were rough and cracked, but America's were soft and warm. Greedily, he used his free arm to press up against the couch. America reacted by pulling England further up so they were both sitting. England threw his arms around America's neck, only partially to keep his balance.

"Is this wrong?" America gasped, pulling away.

"What do you mean?" demanded England, using his arms around America's neck to pull him closer, trying to get him to continue.

"We-we're brothers, aren't we?" America resisted England's weak attempts easily.

"We're not actually related, you idiot." England's voice rasped.

"Bu-but you..raised me. Doesn't…doesn't that make it wrong?"

"Shut up." England gave up on pulling America closer and pressed himself against him instead. "Just shut up." He mumbled around America's lips.

America obliged.

**OH MAI GOD.**

**Well I just killed three hours. Worth it.**

**England needed some huggles, America needed to give those huggles. And maybe England needed to be trapped under a liquor cabinet for a while. Don't ask why it was so heavy. Or why such a heavy liquor cabinet was on the second floor. Because it worked well with the plot, that's why. Maybe England's got reinforced floors, okay?**

**The doorknobs are the sharp glass kind, that's why they're doing so much damage. But I guess they could be wooden or whatever too. That's just how I intended it. I never found a place to say it.**

**America kept his promise ^^. I think England always knew he would.**

**I'm…not sure this counts as fluff. I was listening to 'Hallelujah' at the time, and the whole 'love is a cold and broken hallelujah' sorta…influenced me. Ah well, it's not bad, right?**

**RnR, please and thank you**


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